


The White Cloak

by Nary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dream Sex, F/M, Fingerfucking, Loss of Virginity, Overt Symbolism, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime has a dream that keeps coming back to him - Brienne, wrapped in his white cloak, with nothing beneath the rough wool but her bare and freckled skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The White Cloak

Jaime has a dream that keeps coming back to him - Brienne, wrapped in his white cloak, with nothing beneath the rough wool but her bare and freckled skin. The thought amuses him, in a cynical way, for surely the Maid of Tarth was more suited to wear the White than he'd ever been.

In his half-waking dream she stands before him, not meeting his eyes. Her small teats are studded with gooseflesh, the nipples tight and puckered. He takes one hand (in his dreams, at least the ones that are in any way pleasant, he always has both) and tips her chin up to make her look at him. "Wench, are you cold?"

She blushes furiously. "If I am, it's no concern of yours. I can take care of myself."

"And I'm sure you do." His glance strays down to that wiry thatch of hair between her sturdy legs. "Thinking of me while you do so, no doubt."

Her blue eyes slide away from his, guiltily, but she says "My thoughts are my own." Just like the Maid, he thinks, stubborn to a fault, unable to admit even something so obvious.

"You're wearing my cloak," he tells her. But when she reaches up to unclasp it, he stops her. "Keep it on. After all," he adds with a sardonic little laugh, "I'm sworn to protect and defend women, and I think that includes keeping them from freezing to death."

"It's bitter cold in your tower."

"So it is, and lonely too. Won't you stay with me?"

And because it's a dream, the Maid does, lying back on his bed with the white cloak spreading out around her like a bridal mantle. Jaime kneels between her legs, bows his head to her slit and tongues her open. She breathes in sharply, but doesn't make any other noise as he licks her soft folds and furrows. He eases one finger into her, and she's tight, so tight, but wet and warm too.

Her strong hands grip his shoulders and she draws him up to lie atop her. Although she's still blushing, she knows what she wants. "Take me," she murmurs, and he nods wordlessly.

When he breaks his way past her maiden's barrier, she screws her eyes shut, but still doesn't cry out. She's squeezing him so hard, it's like when he and Cersei were together their first time, except now he's a man grown and better able to control himself. He pauses, waits for her to relax around his shaft before trying to move again, and when he does, he goes slowly, slowly. The second thrust is smoother, and the third still moreso. She clutches him close and wraps those strong legs around his back and his face is buried in her blonde hair, breathing in her scent.

It's too much, too much. He raises himself off her until the only point where they meet is at the join of their four legs, and looks down at her beneath him. Brienne squirms and gasps, "Oh, don't stop, Jaime!"

"I'm not," he tells her, "just seeing that this doesn't end too soon." The grey dawn light is spreading through the room, though, and he knows his dream can't last much longer. He strokes the nub of her clit with his thumb, his prick still half inside her, and feels each shudder and twist of her pleasure pass through him as well. When she's sated, he plunges back into her as easy as can be, lets his control slip and pounds her, both of them grunting with each thrust.

When he's at the point where he thinks he'll have to come or die, she breathes his name against his ear. "Brienne," he whispers back, and unloads into her, spilling everything he has in short, throbbing bursts.

The end of the dream is always the same. She unclasps the cloak and leaves it lying beside him on the bed, the pure white stained with her maiden's blood. And the waking is the same as well, cold and wrung-out and alone.


End file.
